Читать книгу This Finer Shadow - Harlan Cozad McIntosh - Страница 5

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The Verda, due to sail the following day, lay in port. Her lines were coiled and her deck chipped. The houses had been cleaned and the captain’s deck and the bridge were freshly painted. She was neat and lonely, pushing against the wharf with tired swells. She was not the same ship that had smashed against a storm-driven wave with a ferocity equaling that of the ocean, or had tolled deftly under the charge of a freak sea. She was aloof, nearly desperate amid the deluge of cans and boxes and other flotsam that swept the harbor. She was a dead creature, with the look of a coffin about her; and all the ships alongside were the same.

Below, in the Verda, the sailors were busy in the washroom. Tired by a day in the holds they opened some beer. A young ordinary seaman, restrained by weeks at sea, jumped around the room noisily and popped a towel at one of the men.

“Pipe down!” someone yelled at him.

The boy, unlistening, wrapped a towel around his waist, grabbed another, put on wooden sandals and ran into the fo’c’sle. Rio was sitting on his bunk, his chin in his hands, staring straight before him. Exhilarated by the beer and the cold bath, the ordinary danced forward and snapped the towel, flicking it against Rio’s cheek. Instinctively, the big sailor jumped to the boy’s side, his fingers spread. The ordinary turned pale and backed away. At this, Rio’s eyes cleared. He regarded the lad as though seeing him for the first time and without a word, returned to his bunk. The ordinary took one more frightened look at him, went back to the washroom and was soon laughing again.

In the fo’c’sle Rio was silent. The other sailors began to drift in, but no one spoke to him. He sat on his bunk with his chin in his hands, thinking about Martin. He remembered the night on lookout, the ship’s foam and the low constellations. He remembered lights over Haiti and a young, impulsive face. Martin hadn’t understood. He knew what his friend had thought. By God!—he’d thought it himself for a minute or two.... Why had Martin got off in New York at this season? It would soon be winter. He didn’t have any money. His body was conditioned to the tropics. His clothes were light and his blood thin. He would sleep in a flop house, eat bad food and get sick from that cold east wind.

Rio got up from his bunk and went to his locker. He put on a new suit and new shoes. He packed his gear except for his sea boots and oilskins. These he laid on a bench. Then he put on his overcoat and a new hat, picked up his bag and walked out of the fo’c’sle.

None of the sailors had said anything while he packed. But when he had gone, the young ordinary looked around with wide eyes.

“For gosh sake!” he said. “What’s he doin’?”

No one answered him. An old sailor picked up Rio’s sea boots and inspected them.

“There’s a god-damned hole,” he said.

An able-bodied seaman lit a cigarette.

“He blew his cork,” he said to the smoke.

“It’s his own cork,” answered the old sailor.

“Yeah,” said the A.B., picking up Rio’s oilskins and hanging them by his own locker.

“Let’s get a game,” suggested the ordinary, shuffling a pack of cards.

“Get your game with the black gang,” said the old sailor. “Them lights’re goin’ out.”

“So’m I,” said the A.B., pulling on a blue jacket. “There’s a bag on Sand Street that thinks I’m papa.”

The ordinary stopped him.

“Loan me a dollar, Al. An’ I’ll go with you.”

The A.B. laughed.

“A dollar?” He laughed again without looking.

“I’ll pay you back in Panama,” said the ordinary.

“We don’t get no draw in Panama,” said Al, and left.

Some of the men followed him and the others climbed into their bunks. The lights went out. The old sailor snored uneasily through the bitter ghosts of his life. In the bunk above him the young ordinary tried to forget Sand Street. He wanted to think about a secluded little valley on the Pacific coast—so far away. He remembered the thick smell of clover and the believing, fresh eyes of a girl he had left—for this? His bunk felt damp and he turned wearily.... His shipmate was on Sand Street now. There would be light-haired women and dark-haired women. There would be dancing and an orchestra.... The boy rolled on his stomach and held a pillow tightly against his eyes. The darkness brought fields and sunsets; branches and yellow, curving rivers. Memory covered Sand Street—Sand Street with its gin-mills, its red mouth and perspiration. The boy held the pillow tighter. Smelling the girl’s lips and the clover—dreaming of the bright, soft land—so far—his mother, his sweetheart, he went to sleep.